


No Place Like Holmes

by gardnerhill



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Crack, Gen, Prompt Fic, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If I only had a plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place Like Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2016 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #15, **Throw The Book At 'Em:** Include a literary reference in today's work. Make sure that your reading/viewing audience knows what it is, but whether or not any other characters (such as Holmes) understands the reference is up to you.

It took some time for Joan Watson to finally finish picking the locks on her cuffs. Then it was only a matter of subduing the driver and his gunman friend who had seized her off the street not far from the brownstone; that took some time too and she focused on the gunman first, flinging his weapon out the window of the moving vehicle. The driver, hampered by not wanting to crash his vintage automobile (which she’d factored into the fight), was unable to assist his wingman until it was too late, and a sharp punch to his kidney disabled him long enough for Joan to grab the wheel. Fortunately they were well into the rural charm of the Greenwood Lake area and so the traffic was lighter. No fool, Joan opened the door and rolled out as the car slowed down, her purse-straps and cuffs still wrapped round her fist from their use as makeshift brass knuckles. The driver recovered enough to get the hell out of there, but not before Joan noted the vehicle: black 1967 Mercury Cyclone, New Jersey plate LFB1900. There were smarter and less conspicuous ways to attempt a kidnapping or worse, and an eye-catching car was not one of them; Jamie Moriarty would have had these two idiots executed as an example to her staff. So at least Joan knew this wasn’t Auntie M’s fault.

First Joan reached into her purse to make sure Clyde was okay. The tortoise had survived the ordeal with his usual equanimity, though he’d conceded to his reptile nature and had defecated more than once. But his shell was uncracked, and that was all that mattered. “So much for your trip to the vet,” Watson said wryly. She looked around at their agrarian setting. “I have a feeling we’re not in New York City any more, Clyde.”

She sat by the side of the road to take inventory. Her phone was gone, thrown to the curb by her kidnappers as they’d gotten her in the car, but they’d just stashed her purse in the back seat so she had resources enough in a pinch. Wallet, keys, flashlight, first aid kit, granola bars, bottle of water, incontinent tortoise – and there was a gun about a mile behind her on the road, which she ought to collect as evidence against her abductors and to prevent some kid finding it.

So Joan set off, following the yellow-striped road that circled this lakeside suburb and chafing feeling back into her wrists. She found the gun at about the 3/4-mile mark and wrapped it carefully in her scarf to save the fingerprints before stowing it in a zipper-lined partition in the purse. “Now to get back to the brownstone.”

“Brownstone?” The voice made Joan start up and face the person who was standing outside a nearby house. A young white woman in a yoga outfit with strawy blonde hair shook her head. “NYC or Brooklyn?”

“Erm…Brooklyn.”

“That’s an hour’s drive at least. A million miles away from this dead end.”

Trophy wife, Joan deduced. Mid- to late twenties. Married or slept with a rich older man because she’d been attracted to his money and now felt trapped here. Probably taught yoga or did a lot of it as a boredom-killer while waiting for him to return from his city job. “Could I please use your phone to call my partner and arrange for a lift?”

The blonde laughed. “Hell, I’ll take you home! It’d be a nice change from doing nothing. Let me get Nick.”  
  
“Nick” turned out to be a beautiful customized chrome-plated motorcycle. Joan’s surgeon’s revulsion at the devices warred with her awe at the splendid thing, her taste for excitement and her practical need for transportation. Dr. Watson lost, harrumphing about murdercycles and organ donors as Joan approached the chopper.

A tiny brown Chihuahua dashed out at Joan from the garage, barking furiously.

“Leona! Bad girl!” the blonde snapped. “She probably thinks you’re stealing Nicky’s pride and joy here. Don’t worry, she won’t bite, she’s a big old coward aren’t you baby?” Sure enough, the dog retreated when Joan hunkered down to try to pet her, shaking and eyes bulging.

Belatedly, Watson realized they were still anonymous to each other. She straightened and held out her hand. “Thanks for this. I’m Joan, Joan Watson.”

“Joan. I’m Sheri, Sheri Crowe.” Sheri scooped up the whining Leona and settled the dog in one of Nick’s saddlebags.

“Could I please borrow your phone so I can at least make sure my partner doesn’t worry about me?”

Joan’s call on Sheri’s phone went straight to message; that meant Sherlock had it off. Well, he at least would know that she was safe – or as safe as someone planning to ride on a motorcycle could be. She called Marcus and gave him the license number, reassuring the anxious police detective that she had a ride home and she was okay, and she’d be in later to file a full report.

“Need to hit the can before we go?”

“For the last _hour_.” Both women laughed as Joan made a beeline for the house.

Pictures and poster-sized images all over the house of some late-50s/early-60s man in a suit. This, combined with the evidence that this man had named his motorcycle after himself, gave Joan an unflattering image of Nicky. The house seemed to contain every up-to-date electronic device, computer, TV and game system, but the only reading material Joan found on her trip to the toilet was one fashion magazine on a coffee table. There was plenty to read on-line, but Joan was old-fashioned enough to gravitate toward the feel and look of paper books; this house felt barren, lacking a heart.

Sheri was helmeted and zipping up a leather jacket as Joan came back; she’d clearly gone back into the house to get the gear. Another, bigger jacket and helmet rested across the bike’s saddle – Nicky’s no doubt. Both were big on Watson, but she tightened the chin-strap and zipped herself up as Sheri settled on the chopper revving the engine. Joan stowed her purse – gun, Clyde and all – in the other saddlebag and clambered aboard behind Sheri. Leona yapped.

“We’re off!” Sheri gunned the bike and Joan whooped at the adrenaline rush as they flew down the road, heading back toward 287.

“So, Joanie,” Sheri called over the wind in their faces. “How’d you wind up walking down a road that ain’t got a sidewalk?”

“Had to escape a car,” Joan called back. It was funny how quickly one adapted to life in a strange world like Sherlock’s. “Couple of men tried to kidnap me.”

“Bastards!”

“I gave ‘em something to think about before escaping. I’m a detective, so you start to get used to stuff like this now and then.”

“Detective, huh? Your partner too?”

“Yes. I gave him my information, so he’ll start tracking them down. He’s a very smart man.”

An onramp. Joan’s stomach did a drop, then she grinned away her fear as they swooped up and onto the freeway.

“Smart.” Joan did not imagine a wistful tone in Sheri’s voice. “I’d like to be smart. I don’t know nothing.”

Joan smiled a little, sadly, and held Sheri a little tighter than she needed (or it was the gut-punching fear of whipping between two semis who responded with honking and profanity). “Sheri, you reached out to help a stranger, and you weren’t afraid of me. That took a heart and courage. Not knowing something, and not being smart, are two different things. We’ll both help you when we get back to my home. We owe you for this.”

“I’d like that.” Sheri sounded much cheerier.

It actually took an hour and 20 minutes, but they pulled up to the right curb just ahead of the evening commuter traffic. Joan felt everything inside relax, even as Leona reacted to a new locale by screeching her head off. She was so glad to be home, and Clyde too.

Sherlock did not run out of the door and down the stairs to greet his returned partner, but he did stand at the threshold and drink her in with his eyes with a satisfied look; his way of saying how relieved he was that she hadn’t taken worse injury than a few scrapes and possibly some bugs in her teeth. He was more verbose when he greeted Joan’s charioteer. “Ms. Crowe, please come inside and refresh yourself. I can also get a bowl of water for your Mexican Hairless. Watson, I strongly suspect that your kidnappers are the Wickham brothers.” Joan nodded; that meant more research after her exciting day.

Inside, Sheri stared at the racks and rows of books in the parlor, and a faint look of panic came to her face. “No, we haven’t read them all,” Joan said immediately. “Well, maybe he has, but I haven’t. Most of these you can find on-line too. The best way to learn something? Read. Read what you like, there’s great stuff in a lot of fashion magazines and sports magazines. If you like soap operas, read romance novels; if you like reality shows, you can find nonfiction about any topic. If reading is tough for you, I can make a list of YouTube videos that talk about all sorts of subjects. There’s even one or two classics you might want to try – but if they’re boring you, put them down and find something else. No one’s making you take a test on any of this.” Joan sharpened her voice. “And I’d really like a word with whoever took away your enjoyment of reading – was it a teacher who kept taking your comic books or Sweet Valley Highs? Called them junk while making you read books that were written by and for white Englishmen from the early 1800s?”

Sheri whirled and stared at Joan with actual fear on her face. “How did you _know_ about Mr. Edelson?”

Joan patted her shoulder. “Because I had a Mr. Edelson in fourth grade.” She was luckier – Mary Watson had headed to the principal and torn several people a new one about taking her daughter’s property. Sheri’s mother had probably scolded her for wasting time in class. Take away the fear or hatred of reading, and her courage and heart would gain her the brains she wanted.

Sheri Crowe wound up staying for dinner to avoid the traffic, where she and Watson regaled Holmes with their adventure. Clyde chewed a bit of lettuce and Leona was happy with a tin of hash.

As Sheri prepared to head home, Sherlock asked her to wait and left the table. He came back holding some square document in a wooden frame. “You ought to have the reward beforehand. For your aid in our hour of need, Ms. Crowe.”

It was a diploma, on thick creamy paper and with Sheri’s name gracing it in Gothic lettering amid the Latin. Somehow Joan had no trouble imagining her partner being able to come up with such a document on such short notice.

Sheri blinked back tears holding the document, and Watson could see that just having this validation of her brain made her want to live up to its promise.

Watson petted the yapping Leona and gave one last admiring look to Nick before gripping Sheri’s hand. “Drive safely, please.”

“Hey, no problem.” Sheri put on her helmet and jacket once again. She mounted Nick and kicked the starter three times. “This is nice, but there’s no place like home!”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] No Place Like Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776831) by [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity)




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